On Hiatus: Baker St
by rukushaka
Summary: "Sherlock Holmes shut the door behind him, shrugged out of his wet coat, and eyed John uncertainly from beneath his dripping fringe." How it started, or: A dead man walks into his flat. Set during the Hiatus, no slash.


**I don't own BBC Sherlock. Obviously.**

**Reviews are much appreciated :D**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_After the Fall, Sherlock had been gone for a bit on his own, and then rumour had it he'd turned up like a ghost in the middle of the night at the Baker Street flat. John had socked him, then sat him down at the kitchen table between the microscope and the thumbs with a cup of tea and a plate of leftover Chinese, and flown upstairs to pack._

_- The Return._

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx **

It was raining.

John stared out at the world from the warmth of 221b, watching the rain falling in sheets, rattling off the roof, trickling off guttering and pooling in the street. The road was deserted: hardly surprising at this hour of the night - or morning, rather, John amended with a glance at the clock.

One thirty in the morning. Hours past his bed time, especially considering his shift started in less than seven hours. Time was he could have stayed up all night on mad errands, and then would make it through his shift on caffeine and lingering adrenaline alone, using his breaks to field impatient calls from -

His breath caught in his throat, agony blazing a trail along his heartstrings, and he took a step back and sank onto the arm of - of -

_Come on, John. You can do it._

Of the green armchair. It was low and square, with the indentations on the seat that were as often from his feet as from his backside.

Not John's feet. Not John's backside.

It wasn't his chair.

It was Sh - Sh -

_Say the name, John._

Sherlock's. It was Sherlock's chair, and John was sitting on the arm of it, wrapped in Sherlock's suit jacket, hunched over and wishing he had the energy to bawl like a baby. His eyes remained stubbornly dry, red rims the only testimony to his unabated grief.

John had cried himself to sleep more times than he could count in the last three weeks. It had almost been worse since Greg and Mycroft had brought the recording around; now he had Sherlock's last words circling everlastingly in his head, groans of anguish and disbelieving breaths of _John… Mrs Hudson… Lestrade… _joining _Goodbye, John_ and the thud as human flesh met unyielding pavement.

Three weeks, and he still couldn't believe it.

Three weeks, and the grief was as raw as ever.

The world was grey and cold, numb, stale. Sherlock wasn't the first friend he'd lost, not by a long shot: but this death was certainly the hardest. Sherlock was - had been - well, _everything_.

Even after three weeks, the gaping hole in his heart was, at times, so bad he could barely breathe. He'd never taken this long to begin the slow move onward, the move toward recovering, learning to live again. But then he'd never known someone like Sherlock, either.

He'd never before been _very loyal, very quickly_; he'd never moved in with someone after knowing them a bare five minutes; he'd never had someone he would kill for - die for - within twenty four hours of meeting them.

And then he'd met Sherlock, and his world had turned upside down.

And then Sherlock had - had - had _died_ -

(_Dark hair white flesh grey pavement and red red red blood everywhere, sightless blue-green eyes and the blood, always the red red red blood_.)

- Sherlock had died, and his world had spun right-way-up again, and the gravity was crushing.

He hadn't even begun to move on yet.

John blinked, swallowed, and moved slowly into the kitchen, tap-step-tap-step with his hateful cane, where he put the jug on to boil, retrieved his RAMC mug from the cupboard, and managed to stop himself reaching for Sherlock's mug as well.

The table was a mess. He'd left the microscope where it was, hadn't dared to move the various papers and files, and couldn't bring himself to chuck away the miscellaneous body parts. They were in a portable chiller, so they'd be alright for a while yet: the thumbs were sitting next to the bag of toenails and keeping company with the three left ears of mixed ethnicity.

He had tea making down to a fine art. Four minutes for the jug to boil, three minutes of steeping, remove the tea bag and add a splash of milk - (breath already drawn to snarkily thank Sherlock for not using all of this carton up on one of his experiments before he remembered and the breath caught in his throat) - and it was ready.

John cradled the mug in his hands, savouring the warmth, and took a long draught.

Odd how the absence of a person could make even a simple mug of tea taste so flavourless.

There was a brief rat-a-tat of knuckles on the doorframe. John frowned as he turned - it was far too late/early for Mrs Hudson to be visiting, Greg was in the middle of sorting out a vicious string of arsons, Mycroft was no doubt busy preventing a few dozen international scandals, and anyone else wouldn't have known to skip the few squeaky steps on their way up from the ground floor - and then sat down abruptly as he saw who it was.

Sherlock Holmes shut the door behind him, shrugged out of his wet coat, and eyed John uncertainly from beneath his dripping fringe.

John stared at him blankly, not for one second disbelieving the evidence of his eyes - the figure was undoubtedly Sherlock, and if anyone could have found a way to survive the Fall, it would be him - but his brain remained gobsmackingly blank. Here was Sherlock. But Sherlock was dead _dead dead dead _Sherlock was dead John had seen him fall, had seen the dark hair white flesh grey pavement and red red red blood but Sherlock was alive, here, Sherlock was here and alive.

"Um…" John said.

Sherlock remained silent, leaning back against the door, and John suddenly realised that the man was white, not just pale but _white_, and even leaner than usual, and that his pockets were shaking slightly where his hands were tucked into them. He was staring at John as if he'd not seen him in years, drinking in the sight of him, eyes flicking over his frame, cataloguing the changes of the last three weeks, weight loss and grey hairs and stress lines.

"You'd better sit down," John said finally.

Some of tension leached out of the lean form. Sherlock took a step forward and swayed.

"Sh - " Swearing under his breath, John reached him before he could fall and forced him down onto a chair. He shoved his mug of tea into Sherlock's hand and reached for sugar, tipping it straight from the canister into the mug, "_Idiot_. When was the last time you had anything to eat? - "

He reached for a hand towel and scrubbed it roughly through his _dead dead dead he was dead _flatmate's hair, over his forehead, down the back of his neck, and barely paused for breath before ordering, "No, actually, don't answer that. Drink."

This garnered a weary smile and a long gulp of tea, eyes closed, exhaustion evident. Finishing the hasty drying off, John balled the towel in his hands and watched Sherlock anxiously, hardly daring to breathe, wondering if it was all a -

"Not a dream," Sherlock's voice was hoarse, "Here."

A slim hand snaked out and pinched John hard on the arm.

"Ow!"

"Like I said," there was a shade of amusement overlaying the tiredness, "Not a dream."

John fumbled for a chair and sat down heavily. Opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, "You're alive then."

A side-long glance, "Obviously. You're wearing my jacket."

"What?"John glanced down at himself, "Oh, yeah." And then his brain caught up, and he made a move to shrug it off, "Sorry, I'll just - "

Sherlock waved a hand, "No, leave it on, it's - fine."

"O…kay," And then his brain caught up _again_, and anger was swiftly overtaking the confusion because _sod it all he's alive he's alive he's alive and we thought he was dead but he's alive_, "Right. Stand up."

"What?"

"You heard me. Leave the tea for a minute. Stand up."

Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly, but he did as he was told, stepping from the table slightly and turning to face John.

He was met with a fist to the cheekbone that sent him stumbling back into the wall.

"_You - complete - ass_."

The rage was gone as swiftly as it had come, leaving John drained and shaking, and at the sight of Sherlock slumped against the wall, probing his cheek with a cautious finger, he felt a faint flush of remorse.

"Sorry. You'll have a decent bruise for a few days," and then his resolve hardened, "but you deserved it."

Sherlock bobbed his head in a movement that could have meant 'fair enough' or 'I object', but said nothing, slouching back to his chair and reclaiming the half-empty mug of tea.

John watched him for a moment, noting the way he avoided eye contact, and then joined him at the table, "How?"

Sherlock didn't look up from inspecting the depths of his tea, "How what?"

"How did you do it?"

"I'm not actually omniscient, you know. You'll have to elucidate."

"_The Fall_, Sherlock. Your suicide, remember?" The anger was back, raging red hot, and his voice was rising in both volume and tone, "You jumped off a building right in front of me, landed _smack_ on the pavement, and there was blood everywhere, your head was smashed open, you were very definitely dead - "

"John. Breathe," came the gentle command from Sherlock.

John covered his face with a hand and exhaled roughly, forcing back the memories that threatened to overwhelm him. When he had control of himself again he dropped the hand and repeated, "Your s - suicide, Sherlock. How did you - how did you _not die_?"

The mug came up, Sherlock's head tilted back, and his throat worked furiously as he drained the remaining tea. Sighing, he set the mug down; his head turned and he finally met John's eyes with weary resignation, "It involved a great deal of planning, no little amount of help from Mycroft, and some - luckily very accurate - predictions as to what Jim's actions would be."

John stared at him blankly, "Mycroft."

A hum of agreement.

"Mycroft. Mycroft helped you."

"Yes, John."

"Mycroft _knew._"

"Must you keep repeating yourself? It's rather tedious."

"So - " John waved his hands wildly, feeling a renewed wave of anger toward the elder Holmes, "So you're telling me that when he brought that recording around here, the recording _of your last words_ - "

"Did he?"

"Yes, Sherlock, he did!"

"Oh."

" - When he brought the recording around, when he sat on that couch, that couch right there, and put his hand on my shoulder and _cried real tears because we were hearing why you'd sodding killed yourself - _you're telling me that he knew that you were still alive?"

There was some small measure of sympathy in Sherlock's eyes, "If it's any consolation, I had assumed he would simply palm the recording off to Lestrade to show you."

"Not much consolation, no. He brought Greg around as well."

_Mycroft's hand on one shoulder, light, unsure; Greg's on the other, clenched hard and tight and still shaking with emotion as they listened to Sherlock's 'note', his last words before he fell, arms wheeling, silhouetted for a timeless age against the grey of an overcast London sky…_

"Oh." Sherlock was back to staring into his now-empty mug.

John huffed a breath and threw his chair back from the table, "I'm going to kill him."

"Dull."

"What?"

Sherlock's eyes slid closed as he stifled a yawn, "Dull, adjective, lacking interest or excitement - "

"Yes - _alright_. I know what dull means," John turned back from his impulsive move toward the door. "Why is it dull that I plan to kill your brother, then?"

"Tedious - " another yawn, not quite managing to stifle it this time, " - paperwork."

John considered this for a moment, and had to admit that it was quite true.

"Besides," Sherlock continued, "there are much better ways to get back at him. It will have to wait until after we've taken care of our other business, of course."

"Other business?" Frowning at the pallor of Sherlock's skin and the general aura of exhaustion he was emitting, John slipped across the kitchen to flick the jug on.

"Mmm. You know Jim's dead?"

John hummed in affirmation, retrieving his mug and dropping another tea bag into it.

"And that his men were under orders to kill yourself, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson if - "

"If you didn't jump? Yes." The words scraped in his throat, echoing the sick feeling in his stomach. The idea that he was the reason for Sherlock's suicide, to be held as a twisted sort of ransom in return for his death… the helplessness was infuriating. The kettle boiled and he filled the mug, adding a generous dash of sugar - Sherlock needed it.

"So I can't come back yet."

Midway through setting the mug in front of Sherlock, John paused, "I thought - but that's why you're here, isn't it? You're back now."

Blue-green eyes flicked up to meet John's for a moment, and one slim hand reached out to curl around the mug, brushing against John's fingers as it did so. The sheer amount of reassurance he felt in that single movement was staggering.

Sherlock quirked the corner of his mouth, "If I come back, you'll die. It doesn't matter that Jim's gone - his men are still out there, ready to act. I come back to life, and all three of you die. It's a simple cost-benefit analysis, really: one life is not worth three deaths."

John frowned, "But you're here."

"For a few hours," was the calm reply.

Silence as that sank in, and the hope that had flared minutes earlier died a slow, shrivelled death. "You're not staying."

John busied himself checking the contents of the fridge so that he didn't have to watch Sherlock's face. Two cartons of milk, half a block of cheese, a tub of cultures that were definitely _not _yoghurt, a bag of carrots, some boxes of leftover takeaway…

"I can't stay, John. You know I can't."

A half-glance over his shoulder revealed Sherlock gazing at him steadily, unwavering. John's shoulders sagged as he pulled a container of leftover Chinese out of the fridge, "Sherlock - " The words wouldn't come.

Sherlock sipped his tea and frowned, "I… had planned on going alone."

John tipped the Chinese out onto a clean plate and didn't reply.

"Didn't want to risk you, you see."

The plate went into the microwave.

"But… " Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock gesture helplessly, "Your absence had rather more of a detrimental effect than I'd expected. You've seen what three weeks without you has done to me; I wouldn't like to hazard a guess as to what three years would look like."

John whipped his head around to stare incredulously at him, "Three _years_?"

"Mmm," Sherlock was staring into his tea again, "I thought I could just… move on without you, that as long as Mycroft was here to look after you I could just - go. But…" he shook his head, "it appears my subconscious doesn't trust your safety to anyone but me. The nightmares alone are - " he stopped.

"Three years," John repeated, filing away the _doesn't trust your safety to anyone but me _to examine at another time.

"At a very rough estimate. Jim's network is spread right across Europe, it will take some time to dismantle."

"You're leaving England."

The microwave beeped.

Sherlock took a gulp of tea in lieu of replying. He was avoiding eye contact again.

"Why can't Mycroft handle it?"

"With the Norwegian Summit coming up?" Sherlock snorted and shook his head. "Not to mention the Italian elections and the general state of the world economy. He's far too busy."

John retrieved the plate of Chinese, fished a fork out of the cutlery drawer, and set them on the table in front of Sherlock. "Eat," he ordered absently.

"So will you come?" Sherlock lifted a forkful of fried rice to his mouth.

"Will I - _what?_" There was the hope again, lighting up like a very fast sunrise inside John's chest. Surely he couldn't mean -

There was a distinct note of amusement in Sherlock's voice, "I need an assistant. Will you come?"

John stared at him, mouth gaping slightly, but there was no question about the answer at all, "Yes. Of course I will, yes."

"Three years away from London," Sherlock cautioned, "Three years with no job and not much money, three years of running and fighting and hiding in run-down motel rooms and _killing_, John."

"Three years of doing all of that _with you_, Sherlock," John retorted. "Yes."

A small, pleased smile appeared on Sherlock's face, "Excellent. I'd be lost without my doctor." He speared a lump of chicken.

Decision made, John's mind was racing, "Stay here. Finish the tea and the Chinese. I'm going to pack."

"Pack?"

"Pack," he half-shouted, already out the door, "We can't go wandering the Continent in naught but what we're wearing now, can we?"

There was a hum of agreement from the kitchen, the one that translated as _good point_. Halfway up the stairs, John grinned triumphantly, almost bursting with happiness and the promise of adventure and danger and being right where he should be, at Sherlock's side, guarding his back; and he realised he'd left his cane leaning against the kitchen counter and laughed.

_Game on._


End file.
